


in the quiet wild

by matskreider



Series: altered realities [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Edgeplay, First 'I love you's', Laughter During Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, there's a lot of laughter and it's really cute because these two are actual dorks, trans!Mats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 21:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13108551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: Mats stares at him for a minute, keeping their gaze locked. When he smirks, he watches as Chris freezes, not wanting to risk making his own punishment worse. “If you wanted your cookies, you could have just asked,” Mats coos, reaching over and ruffling Chris’ hair. “In fact, I’ll go make them now. But if you think you’re getting anyothersort of treat for Christmas? You better think again.”With that, he gets up from the bed, not bothering to put a shirt on, and pads down the couple stairs separating the bed from the living room and kitchen space. The cookies are basically cool now, and that means he can get started on the marshmallow webbing.He hides his smile as he hears Chris’ muttered, “Shit,” as he walks away.





	in the quiet wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antoineroussel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antoineroussel/gifts).



> this is entirely because of eliza. you know what you did. i hope you're ready for your consequences.

Mats stands barefoot in the kitchen, carefully supervising the melting of the chocolate chunks. He gently adds a few drops of peppermint extract when the time is right, and goes back to stirring, incorporating the flavors fully. When the mixture is done, he turns off the heat and sets the melted chocolate aside to cool while he worked on the rest of the dough.

He’s humming along to the faint remix of “Pure Imagination” as he works, scooping out spoonfuls of dough and dropping them onto the parchment paper. As the song begins to fade out, there’s the feeling of cold hands at his hips, before he’s being lifted into a laughing idiot’s embrace. “I told you to knock it off.”

Chris just laughs and noses along Mats’ jaw, tucking him against his chest. His clothes are chilled, and Mats can feel the teeth of his jacket zipper digging into his shoulder blade. “And I never agreed. C’mon babe, you know me.” The forward sets down his alternate captain and snags a ball of dough off the parchment. He tosses it into his mouth, and exaggeratedly moans as he bows away from Mats, heading off towards the fridge. “Simplistic decadence, as always.”

“You do know no one actually talks like that,” Mats replies as he puts another ball of dough down to replace the one Chris had taken. He bends to slide the trays into the oven, and rolls his eyes at the cat call whistle from across the kitchen. He sets the timer and piles up the bowls and spoons, taking them to the sink in the island.

Chris is sitting on one of their stools, a half of a sandwich with a massive bite taken out of it in his hands. “Eh, ‘s not so bad to stand out,” he counters, waggling his brows at Mats. The Norwegian just snorts as he sets about washing the dirty dishes. “What did you get done today?”

“I picked up some stuff for Staalsy and Millsy, but I’m still blanking on what to get for the trio of idiots uptown.”

“You could literally get them gift cards and they wouldn’t care,” Mats offers, handing the soaking spoons to Chris. He takes them without complaint, taking a towel out of the drawer by his hip, and starting to dry them.

“I might get them dictionaries.”

“You threaten that to them every year, and every year Jimmy gives you a piece of Harvard paraphernalia.”

Chris looks up with a bright smile that looks slightly unhinged, but Mats has since grown used to his teammates’ elastic features. It was the word of the week a few weeks ago, as Chris bullied a couple of the younger guys into learning something new, to “educate them past their naïve ignorance of the finer points of language.” Mats had picked up on it, but only due to Chris drilling Buch on the pronunciation points. It’s not like he was purposefully listening. The song kicks over to “Smile” and Chris is already humming along, his sandwich held in his mouth as he reaches for the pot Mats hands him.

Mats dries his hands on his sweats, shuffling over to Chris to pull the toque and scarf off of him. A faint dusting of snow falls onto the hardwood floor, and he can’t help himself from taking a few of the crunchier bits and dropping them down Chris’s shirt. The whining yelp and pitiful picture that Chris makes draws more bubbling laughter from Mats, who almost wishes he were recording this.

“So rude, who raised you,” Chris grumbles around his sandwich, reaching up to put the pot on the hooks above the island, a subtle retaliation that will frustrate Mats tomorrow when he goes to make more holiday treats.

Mats tosses the hat and scarf on the hooks by the door, before going back to the kitchen, pinching Chris’ shoulder as he passes. “If you want the peppermint bark brownies, you’re going to bring that pan back down for me to reach.” He pulls the cookies out of the oven, and sets them to cool, turning off the oven as he does.

“Yeah, yeah. Wait, so you’ve got the brownies and those, and then what else?”

“I have the monkey bread to make just before we head over so it’s hot, because no one likes cold monkey bread. And then I’m gonna make a batch of Havreflarn for Henke, and put a little Norwegian flag on the ribbon because the expression he’s going to make will be hilarious,” Mats answers, counting the dishes off on his fingers. “And if I have time _maybe_ the chocolate chip half-dipped cookies that you like.”

“How come Henke takes precedence over me?”

“Because the joke isn’t the same. I tell you this, every year.”

Chris pulls the pan down to the island, staring at Mats with an unreadable expression. He gets up, throwing the wrapper from his sandwich away as he comes over pin Mats against the counter. Mats resolutely keeps his hands on the counter’s edge, knowing where this will go if he reaches up. He has to make the marshmallow webbing for the cookies, get them off of the pan and properly put away so they aren’t unnecessarily crunchy, he needs to run down to the corner store before it gets dark out so he can actually get the rest of the ingredients that he needs, and he needs to prioritize as much baking ahead of time so when they make the drive over to whoever’s hosting the holiday party this break, everything’s already packed up and ready to go.

He doesn’t have time to cup Chris’ jaw to watch the way he melts into the touch, and he doesn’t have time to marvel at the way the setting winter sun lightens Chris’ dark chocolate eyes to a honeyed hue, nor the way that intensity is directed solely at him.

Instead, Chris puts two fingers under Mats’ chin, coaxing him to meet his gaze. “I’m not talking about the joke, babe,” he murmurs. Mats the one who helplessly whines, knowing that they’re not expected anywhere later that day, knowing in his bones that Chris has already won. He leans forward to kiss him, and he tastes like chocolate and peanut butter.

There’s a hand sliding beneath the thin cotton of Mats’ shirt, warmth spreading up his spine with every movement of Chris’ fingers. He relishes the way Chris seems to know what he wants before he does, sliding his thigh between Mats legs. His jeans are cold from outside, but the pressure is what Mats wanted, and he rolls his hips in obvious thanks. Vaguely, Mats registers that his baking playlist had ended, the kitchen silent except for their kisses and the friction between their pants. For such a vibrant soul, full of energy and light, a subdued Chris was beautiful in a different way. He pulls away from Mats mouth, his teeth giving a teasing bite to his lower lip, before making his way down his neck. It’s hot and wet, and Mats knows from experience that he needs to draw a line somewhere, before he winds up marked where the cameras will see.

He pushes against Chris’ chest, the thick weight of his jacket simultaneously calming and frustrating Mats. Of course Chris listens, he always does, and he leaves Mats’ neck alone, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder instead. “Want me to stop?” he asks, his voice low. At some point he’d have to ask him why, exactly, he got so worked up from so little, but Mats wasn’t sure he was ready for the honesty that inevitably would follow.

“…If you want to keep going, we have to move elsewhere,” Mats concedes. He’s not surprised at the way Chris immediately picks him up, and he wraps his legs around his waist, pulling him back in for another kiss. Even though he’s in denim, he can still feel Chris through his pants, and he _wants._ “The bed, take me to bed,” he mumbles, his breath already coming shorter.

Chris doesn’t say anything, his mouth otherwise occupied, but he pulls away just enough to walk the short distance to the bed by the expanse of windows. The sounds of New York remain muffled through the icy glass, cars and passersby blissfully unaware of what’s happening above their heads. Mats leans back enough that he can take his shirt off, dropping it on the floor beside the bed, and starts pulling at Chris’ jacket. Somehow, he winds up set on the bed, with Chris kneeling over him, taking his jacket off, before stretching out over him, claiming his mouth once more. He laces their fingers together, pinning Mats hands to the bed, much to his frustration.

He squirms until he has one of Chris’ thighs between his own, and starts to roll his hips again, moaning a little when the fabric rubs him just the right way. It’s an open secret between them that Mats generally doesn’t wear underwear if he’s planning on being at home for the majority of the day, which means that the slide of his sweatpants against his cock is significantly more satisfying than it otherwise would be. Normally, Chris takes full advantage of this. Normally, Mats doesn’t have to work this hard. And normally, Chris doesn’t waste the opportunity to have a shirtless Mats be marked up to a near obnoxious degree.

Instead, Chris nips and sucks at Mats lower lip and tongue until he’s fully hard and whimpering, riding Chris’ thigh with a hunger he normally could reserve for actually getting what he wanted. He tries to pull his hands free of Chris’, but the American has him pinned, well and truly stuck. Mats pulls back for air, his whines no longer soft sounds of struggle, but genuine frustrated whimpers, interspersed with panting moans when he gets the angle just right.

It’s at this moment that Chris rolls off of Mats, lying next to him on the bed and looking up at the ceiling.

Mats has just enough wits about him to muffle his near sob of shock, and sits up, a visible wet spot on his sweats. “What the fuck?”

Chris shrugs. “I’m just saying. If you’re gonna privilege Henke’s holiday order over mine, maybe I’m gonna privilege other things over you.”

“…What.”

“I said-”

“I heard what you said, Chris, what the actual fuck?”

“Is this _you_ talking, or is this _your dick_ talking?”

“Christopher.”

That gets Chris’ attention. He looks at Mats with wide eyes, caught off guard from the severity of using his full name. He doesn’t speak, just waits for whatever judgment Mats is going to pass.

Mats stares at him for a minute, keeping their gaze locked. When he smirks, he watches as Chris freezes, not wanting to risk making his own punishment worse. “If you wanted your cookies, you could have just asked,” Mats coos, reaching over and ruffling Chris’ hair. “In fact, I’ll go make them now. But if you think you’re getting any _other_ sort of treat for Christmas? You better think again.”

With that, he gets up from the bed, not bothering to put a shirt on, and pads down the couple stairs separating the bed from the living room and kitchen space. The cookies are basically cool now, and that means he can get started on the marshmallow webbing.

He hides his smile as he hears Chris’ muttered, “ _Shit_ ,” as he walks away.

* * *

The next day brings an optional skate in the morning. Mats and Chris both go in, sharing the drive and a coffee stop in. Chris purposefully makes eye contact with Mats as he finishes the last dregs of his coffee, knowing damn well that Mats hates when he can taste the grittiness left over. Mats levels him with a flat stare, but his mouth quirks up into a smile without his permission.

In return, once they’re out on the ice, Mats sets Smithy on Chris, which is entertaining for a couple of reasons. One, it’s funny to watch the two of them drop gloves in the corner and then make absolutely no moves to actually fight, but rather spin around in circles. Two, it puts Mac in the position of having to choose between being a captain and breaking it up so they’ll actually practice, or letting them have some fun because the skate was optional in the first place, so is it _really_ that big of a deal? And three, it gives Chris the opportunity to show off, to get all disheveled and flushed, partially for himself but also partially for Mats’ benefit.

(Chris is a book smart man who plays a sport about physicality and is one of the team leaders in penalty minutes. There are YouTube compilations of his goalie “victims.” Sue Mats for being a little turned on by these displays, and sue Chris for knowing this. In a way, it’s torture for them both, which comes to a head on the ride home as Chris looks to him with a longing that Mats refuses to acknowledge.)

Mats spends the rest of the day baking, making the peppermint brownies and Havreflarn, as promised. Also as promised, the half-dipped chocolate chip cookies have been finished since the day prior, in a cake stand on the counter, free and ready for Chris to take if he so wishes. Mats knows that he hasn’t taken any, so for dessert that night he makes a purposeful effort to have one. He sucks on the side that’s covered in chocolate, scraping at it with his teeth as they watch TV. He’s not imagining the way Chris shifts next to him, biting at his lower lip to remain focused on the show.

Later that night, in bed, Chris up reading _Crime and Punishment_ in the original Russian – because he’s a huge dork who wants to improve, instead of just talking to Buchy like a normal person -  Mats snuggles in next to him. It’s the closest they’ve been all day, and Mats can’t blame Chris for that. Part of it is their schedules, but part of it is that, like with most things, Chris doesn’t understand grey areas. Everything is stop and go with him. So the fact that he not only lost control of the little game he started, coupled with the fact that they hadn’t had much time for affection that day aside from the drive in to practice, makes for a slightly wary boyfriend.

“You know I’m not mad at you,” Mats murmurs, smoothing his hand down Chris’ stomach. He may make fun of him for sleeping shirtless in the winter, but it comes in handy in moments like this. “Like, I’m telling you, just in case you didn’t know. I’m not mad.”

Chris sets Dostoyevsky aside to look down at Mats. “Are you sure?” When Mats nods, he sees the careful way Chris’ shoulders relax, the tension leaving his body. “I just, I thought you were.”

Mats laughs. He has to, what kind of logic would that be? “Just because we’re not having sex doesn’t mean I’m mad at you.”

Chris rolls his eyes and scoots down in bed so he’s able to hold Mats better. “Well excuse me for making that association. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

Mats pinches him, leaving a yellow mark that quickly turns red on Chris’ skin. “Yes, you did, don’t lie. But I’m not _still_ mad about it. I’m just taking my time deciding when you get your reward. Do you like your cookies, by the way?”

Chris pouts, but nods. “They’re fucking great.”

“Were they worth it?”

“…That’s a leading question.”

“We’re not in court.”

“No, we’re in _bed._ Which could be a lot more fun, I’m just saying.”

“Goodnight, Chris.”

Mats closes his eyes, but still hears the exasperated fondness in Chris’ voice as he turns the light off and wishes him sweet dreams.

* * *

“What the hell could you be baking right now?” Chris asks, a few days later, coming downstairs from the shower.

Mats doesn’t look at him, instead focusing on sprinkling some powdered sugar over the rather small circle of monkey bread. “I’m trying a new recipe,” he begins, talking slow as he carries it from the prep counter to the island. “So I made a tester loaf for us, before I make the bigger one for the party. Do you want some?”

It’s a moot point, Mats knows. There are plenty of stories detailing just how much Chris can eat in one sitting, when he’s not in training mode. The slider story will live on in infamy, if Marc has his way.

Chris is already in the kitchen, still wet from the shower, with droplets clinging to his shoulders. The kitchen light casts shadows along his angular face, guided by the fact that he’d shaved that morning, removing all but leaving his characteristic mustache-goatee combo intact. He picks up a ball of the still hot monkey bread, and pops it into his mouth. His blissful moan is almost as sweet as the syrup Mats sucks off his fingers. His surprise is even sweeter.

“Um…”

Mats smiles up at him as he releases Chris’ thumb from his mouth. “Yes?”

“N-nothing,” he stammers in reply, and Mats keeps his smile as he reaches for another chunk of monkey bread. He takes it himself, purposefully leaving some of the syrup on his lower lip and refraining from licking it off.

It doesn’t take long for Chris to catch up with the plot. When he does, he hesitates for a moment, dark eyes darting between Mats’ own, and his mouth. He’s transfixed. But when Mats whispers, “It’s okay,” it breaks the spell, and his mouth is soon claimed.

Chris sucks at his lower lip, taking more of the syrup off with each lick, until nothing’s left. Mats deepens the kiss, tasting cinnamon on both of their tongues, and pulls Chris closer with sugared hands. He purposefully steps closer to Chris, pressing their bodies up against one another. The stolen BC shirt he’s wearing sticks to his torso, the shower water soaking into the cotton. With each parting of their mouths, Chris’ breath gets heavier, until he breaks their near silence with a whispered, “Please…”

Mats smiles with too much teeth, that he uses to bite into Chris’ lower lip and leave it reddened and throbbing. “Depends what you’re asking for.”

“Want you,” Chris mumbles, resting his forehead against Mats’. “So bad.”

“Depending on what you’re asking for, you can have me,” Mats offers. He trails his hand up to the back of Chris’ neck, his nails drawing gentle circles on the skin there. They’re close enough together that Mats can see the way Chris’ pupils dilate; the way he shivers at the touch. His desperation is delicious.

“I want to get off, and I want to get you off, and I want to fuck you, _so. Bad._ ”

“And if I say no?”

Chris presses up against him, and the thin barrier of the towel around his hips doesn’t hide all that much. Neither do Mats’ sweats, and it’s apparent to both men that they could both benefit from a couple hours between the sheets. But Mats isn’t quite finished, and as hard as it is to keep himself from rocking up against Chris, he manages to do it.

“Please, babe. I’m dyin here,” Chris murmurs, searching in Mats’ gaze for any bit of forgiveness. Mats sends him on his way with a biting kiss and a smack on the ass.

* * *

Mats keeps stringing Chris along until the team holiday party, nearly a week after their little game had begun. The cameras get there early in the night for the team based one, and Chris is his usual bubbly self. Later on, after the cameras have left and the champagne and egg nog flow freely, inhibitions are lowered, until there’s a couple of the d-core playing hot seat in the corner, the rookies and Kevin have broken out Cards Against Humanity, and Chris is looking at Mats with a desperate kind of longing.

They’d been invited to the Lundqvist-Staal household for their holiday party, and Mats was looking forward to seeing Hank’s expression when he got his cookies. Mats had also been looking forward to seeing how desperate Chris got by that point. But now, Chris is sitting next to him on one of the couches, his arm around him, and his leg bouncing with hardly restrained energy.

Mats looks at him, and is almost taken aback by the way Chris mouths, “ _Please_.” His plea is so desperate, his eyes so yearning, that Mats can’t help but give him something to hold onto. He leans over and presses a kiss to Chris’ forehead, and murmurs, “Go say your goodbyes, if you want this so badly.”

Chris springs up from the couch, and Mats laughs as he stumbles slightly from his own inertia, before bounding over to the d-core in the corner. Mats is still laughing when he feels a touch to his shoulder. Looking up, he sees the other two thirds of the KZB line looking at him with expressions of amusement and slight judgment. “Is this why he’s been so on edge lately?” Mika asks, one hand on the back of the couch, the other holding a solo cup.

“He so erratic,” Pavel chimes in, and Mats can’t help his slight giggle.

“Did he teach you that one?”

Pavel nods, smiling proudly. “I thinking he need dick. Real soon.”

Mats and Mika crow with laughter at Pav’s blunt phrasing, and Chris’ indignant “Hey! I heard that!” from across the room. Mika claps Mats on the shoulder and then takes Pavel’s hand and leads him away, wishing Mats some rather _explicit_ Swedish luck, just loud enough for Henrik to pick up on. The look he gives Mats is shocked alarm, brows furrowed as he asks if that was him. Mats just keeps laughing, and when Chris bounds back and tugs on Mats’ sweater like the excited puppy he is, he can audibly hear Hank’s, “Oh, Christ,” from the other couch.

Mats finally gets up and he and Chris take their leave, with a wave of very drunk, slightly lecherous goodbyes following them out the door. The moment they’re outside, Chris pulls him in for a kiss that tastes like the spiced cider they’d all been drinking. Mats lets him have this, even lets him dip him a bit, but the sound of a passing car reminds both of them where they are. Mats opens his eyes to find Chris staring at him, and he cups Chris’ cheek and gently presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs, standing up and taking Chris’ hand in his. He’s careful to hide it in the shadows between their bodies, to offer some doubt in case anyone were to take pictures.

It’s not a far walk back to their apartment, and the winter air helps to clear away the fog of alcohol. As they walk, the snow begins to fall once again, adding a fine layer of dust to the just shoveled sidewalks and streets. The fairy lights hanging between buildings add to the festive atmosphere. Mats catches Chris humming “Walking in a Winter Wonderland,” which earns him a private smile as they stop at one of the crosswalks. By the time they make it back to their place, they’re both significantly colder and reasonably sobered up.

They get their boots and jackets off, toques and scarves and gloves, before Mats feels Chris’ hand sliding into his hair, gathering it up to keep it off of his neck as he presses kisses right where he knows drives him crazy. Somehow, kissing and being kissed, they stumble through their still dark apartment, collapsing onto the bed in the lights of New York. Chris works Mats sweater off, and Mats returns the favor, warm bare skin pressed against warm bare skin. As they resume kissing, Mats rolls them over so Chris is the one spread out on the bed beneath him, in shades of red, blue, and green from the lights outside. Mats straddles him, splaying one hand out on his chest. “Did you want this?”

Chris nods, eyes wide and earnest. “Yeah, yes please,” he breathes, already rocking his hips up against Mats. He lets him get away with it for a few minutes, enjoying the way his breathing gets heavier, the little whines he lets out every few breaths or so, the way his whole body trembles when he accidentally finds the right angle and can’t replicate it immediately. 

Mats moves up on his knees and unbuckles his belt, sliding it out of the loops and onto the floor. The moment that the belt is gone, Chris pulls him back down and slides a hand into his jeans, not bothering to wait until they were undone. Mats pushes back into the touch, groaning when Chris takes the unspoken invitation to squeeze. “Missed you,” he mumbles, kissing along Mats’ neck. “Missed this, gonna make you feel so good.”

“Is that a promise?” Mats asks, reaching between them and gripping Chris’ cock. He revels in the way Chris screws his face up, nodding in agreement and trying desperately to get the leverage he needed to make the grip do what he wanted it to. “Well, if you _promise,_ then I suppose you can.”

Mats dismounts Chris’ lap, kneeling next to him as he sets about undoing his boyfriend’s pants. Chris helps the bare amount, lifting his hips to let Mats pull his pants all the way off, and when all that’s left his his boxers, Mats gets to work. He lowers his head, mouthing at Chris’ cock through the fabric of his boxers, sucking occasionally.

“ _Christ,_ holy fuck, Mats, _babe,_ shit…” Mats prided himself on his ability to reduce Chris down to single syllable words. He teasingly nips at Chris’ tip, before pulling down his boxers and taking him into his mouth as much as he was able. It was no surprise that Chris had a big dick, it was actually a sort of locker room lore. When he and Chris had first started hooking up, Chris had told him he didn’t expect him to take all of him. So, naturally, Mats had held off on telling him about his lack of gag reflex until Chris least expected it.

That had been a good night.

Mats alternates between licking along the sides and suckling just on the tip, focusing right on the places that bring Chris ever closer to the edge. It’s not that hard; after a few days of basically edging Chris, he’s already at the precipice after only a few minutes. His thighs start to tremble as he tries to decide if he wants to move into Mats’ mouth or away from the touches. Mats makes the decision for him, pulling away completely, save for a hand on Chris’ thigh.

“Fuck, no, Mats please, you promised, Mats, babe, please-” Mats silences him with a kiss, pulling back despite Chris’ desperate hands.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re gonna have me, I promise, but you have to prep me first. It’s been a while,” he soothes. He watches as realization comes to Chris’ eyes, and squeezes his thigh to urge him on. “Come on, I’m not gonna get prepped by myself.”

Chris sits up and moves to get the lube and condoms while Mats shucks his pants, moving himself up against the pillows. He relaxes into them, closing his eyes as he feels Chris start to move his way down his body, kissing and biting at every inch of skin that he saw fit to. Occasionally, Mats catches bits and pieces of whatever Chris is muttering to himself – usually comments about how hot Mats is, or how lucky he is to have him – but the fun really starts when Chris sets up camp between his legs. He feels his warm breath against his skin before he really sets in, sucking Mats off like his life depends on it. It’s so much, and Mats initially jerks at the feeling, before spreading his legs further and encouraging Chris to keep going. He gasps when Chris works his tongue inside him, hot and wet and beyond satisfying. He reaches down, blindly raking his nails across Chris’ shoulders. He thought he’d get over the desire to want to be eaten out, but Chris, and his absolute motor mouth, had talked Mats into it. Now he doesn’t ever want to go back.

He can feel himself getting closer, and it’s at this point that he opens his eyes. The snow fall outside creates little dappling shadows across Chris’ muscled back, with nothing but neon and fairy lights to light the way. Suddenly aware of where they are and the context of what’s happening – the startling reminder that at one point, not too long ago, Mats had thought that none of that would ever be possible – he gently guides Chris up. The American moves away with a small whine, licking his lips in the dark. “What is it, babe?”

It says volumes that, after being edged for so long, Chris still has the presence of mind to ask Mats if something was wrong.

“Nothing, I just…” Mats hesitates, looking out the window as if the answer would be written in the capitalist light displays outside. When he inevitably finds nothing, he looks back at Chris, who’s still waiting between his thighs. He’s patient now, but Mats knows that that’s because he thinks something could still be wrong; so, unlike how he is on the ice, he pulls himself inward, and tries to minimize whatever effect he could have. “I’m in love with you.”

He’s not sure what he expected, but he knew he should have expected the near maniacal grin he gets in response. “Well, that’s good. Because I’m in love with you too. Have been for a while,” he responds, like the cat that got the cream. In a way he did, judging from where he was at that moment.

Mats laughs, a small breathless sound. “Well…yeah, good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Good.”

Chris snorts. “Good. Now, can I go back to what I was doing?”

Mats rolls his eyes and leans back against the pillows, closing his eyes again. “Well if you insist.”

He doesn’t have to have his eyes open to know that Chris is smirking up at him. When Chris licks his way back inside, he whines, rolling his hips up, trying to fuck himself on Chris’ tongue. Chris pulls back to litter Mats’ inner thighs with bites and kisses, instead sliding two lubed fingers inside to stretch him. He arches his back and tries not to tighten down on him, knowing he needs to relax in order to get properly prepped. Eventually, as Chris takes Mats’ cock back in his mouth, he has three fingers, all working to stretch him open. He feels as taut as a bowstring, and has to resist the urge to kick at Chris to get him to hurry up. But Chris seems to get the impatience, and sits up, reaching for the roll of condoms next to them.

He catches Mats looking, and waggles his eyebrows at him obnoxiously, which does earn him a small kick, but only a small one. Chris sticks his tongue out in retort, making Mats laugh. That laughter turns to a hitched moan as Chris teases him at first, before beginning to work his way inside. It’s a process, as it always is with them, but it’s a process that’s equal parts rewarding and frustrating. Rewarding, because it stretches Mats out in a way that makes his body feel lithe and sensual, a combination made rare since he’d made it to the NHL. Frustrating, because it’s not quite what he wanted, but a promise of something more.

Eventually, after a few minutes for which Mats will have bruises all over his chest from Chris’ roaming mouth, he’s able to roll his hips and fill Mats to the brim. He does this a couple of times, each time taking Mats’ breath away at the feeling. He’s so focused on the feeling between his legs that he’s almost surprised when Chris takes his mouth in a kiss, nipping at his lower lip. He can taste himself, but he tastes almost like nothing to himself – though Chris maintains that he’s delicious – so it’s more of an afterthought than anything else.

He wraps his legs around Chris’ waist, his arms coming up to trail down Chris’ back, and with the change in angle, he’s now getting railed right where it makes him see stars. As slick fingers reach between them to jerk him off is about where he starts to lose it. A combination of English and Norwegian tumbles out his mouth, shaky whines and gasps that only encourage Chris to keep going.

Mats goes over the edge first, as is usual when they have sex this way. His whole body trembles, he can feel his pulse between his legs, and it’s probably going to be his cause of death one day. Chris bottoms out in him, forcing himself to hold still until Mats gives him the okay to move. Sometimes the sensitivity is too much, and they get him off another way, but tonight, Mats is more than willing to let him find his release this way. He squeezes his legs around his waist, letting him know that it’s okay to continue.

It doesn’t take long to get Chris his orgasm, which Mats wrings from him just to hear his broken noise of completion. Mats sinks his teeth into the meat of Chris’ shoulder, marking him in one, singular location, as opposed to the smattering across his own chest. He keeps biting and sucking until Chris has to pull out, for both of their sakes. The loss leaves Mats feeling a little cold and more than a little empty, but he knows Chris hasn’t gone anywhere.

He looks back out the snowy window as he waits for Chris to tie off the condom and throw it in the bin. Chris curls up behind him, pulling the blankets up over them and holding Mats possessively to his chest, signaling that he’s done. Together, they watch the snow fall for a little bit, Chris’ hand rubbing along Mats’ abs periodically.

“Was it worth it?” Mats asks, sliding his hand down to cover Chris’, curling his fingers in to lace them together. “For the cookies, I mean.”

“I mean, shit, yeah it was. The cookies are always great. But I mean….I got an I love you out of it, so like. I think that’s the big win here,” he answers, voice on the verge of sleep.

“Hm. Well, get some sleep. We have another holiday party to go to tomorrow,” the smaller of the two replies.

“Mmhmm. Wanna see what Henke’s face does when you piss ‘im off.”

“ _Sleep,_ you can see him tomorrow.”

“M’kay. Love you.”

Mats rolls over so he’s now facing Chris. His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful, his breathing rhythmic, the rampant energy from the day finally settled down for the night. “Love you too,” Mats murmurs, letting his own eyes close, and body settle down.

It really was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> and yes, when henke gets his cookies he probably just stares at mats as he plucks the norwegian flag from off of his swedish cookies, thank you very much. 
> 
> shameless song rec time: this is the [pure imagination remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmVnsFSZSfw) that mats was listening to, and this is [smile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbExecJ9VKg) that chris was bopping along to. 10/10 recommend both.
> 
> hmu on [tumblr,](https://eddieluongo.tumblr.com/) to talk more about these boys or, really anything. hope you enjoyed!


End file.
